


Happy Birthday, Sammy

by why_me_why_not



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Handcuffs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 02:52:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8127587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/why_me_why_not/pseuds/why_me_why_not
Summary: ...and Sam thought Dean forgot his birthday.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a collaboration with De, who isn't on AO3. Originally posted May 2006.

Fucking Dean.

Sam slams the door of the Impala harder than is strictly necessary, taking out his anger on the car because she is part of Dean and, as oblivious as Dean is, he might realize something's not right if Sam knocks the hell out of _him_.

Sam doesn't wait to make sure his brother is following him as he storms off to their room. He wasn't expecting flowers and dinner or a chick-flick moment, but would a simple "Happy Birthday" be too much to ask? The years at Stanford, Dean had never forgotten. There was always that unsigned card in the mailbox, the silent message on his voice mail, and Sam knew that his brother still remembered his birthday. Still _cared_. It honestly doesn't surprise Sam that their father hasn't called with his own birthday greetings -- he hasn't made a big deal over any birthdays in quite a long time -- but Dean? For Christ's sake, they're together _every fucking day_! And Dean knows what day it is, made sure to ask that morning when they stopped to get the newspaper in a store that seemed to stock the past few days' worth. Now it's nearly dusk and Dean hasn't said the first word about it...

Sam tosses his backpack on the floor and throws himself down on his back on the bed furthest from the door, flinging his arm over his eyes. He knows he is acting like a teenage girl -- _again_ , mocks the little voice in his head that sounds too much like Dean these days -- but damn it, it's his birthday!

"What's wrong with you?" Dean asks. Sam listens as Dean shuts the door and tosses his keys onto the dresser. "Sammy?"

"Nothing," Sam answers sullenly, not even arguing the familiar taunt of his childhood nickname. Of course, it's also what Dean calls him when... No, no, no. None of _that_ line of thinking. He's pissed off at Dean.

"What is it? That time of the month or something?"

Dean smacks Sam's leg in passing, and Sam kicks out at his brother, disappointed that he hits only air. "Fuck off."

"Oh, c'mon, Sammy. Don't be like that."

Sam decides not to answer. He listens as Dean rummages around the room, through their duffels.

"I'm gonna run down to that diner we passed a few miles back and pick up some food; you want something?"

Sam shakes his head, taking for granted Dean is watching him for an answer.

"Why don't you see if you can lose this mood before I get back?"

"Fuck off," Sam says again, as the door closes behind his brother.

Sam lays there silently for several minutes, wondering why exactly he's so upset. Finally, he gives up and goes to shower. When he emerges from the bathroom clad in only a towel, Dean's still gone, so Sammy turns the air conditioner down a bit lower and stretches out across his bed. He decides that he's being silly. He's twenty-three; his birthday is just another day. He lets the sound of the rain falling outside lull him to sleep.

Sam's lucky enough that his sleep is solid and dreamless. One minute he's dozing off, focusing on the rhythm of the raindrops against the window pane, savoring the feel of cool air against his skin, and the next thing he remembers is trying to roll over, get more comfortable, only he can't. There's a warm pressing weight over his body, preventing him from moving, and he struggles against the familiarity of it for a moment before recognizing what it is.

"I thought you were going to get food," Sam says grumpily, not bothering to open his eyes. He shifts the weight in his lower body, his legs falling open a bit more to allow Dean to settle more fully against him.

"I did. I was gonna bring you some, but I was still hungry so I ate it too."

Sam opens his eyes to glare up at his brother. "You're an asshole."

Dean grins. "I know." He shakes his head quickly; showering Sam with droplets of the rain that has clung to his hair.

"Ugh! Dean!" Sam goes to raise his hands to wipe the wetness off his face, or push Dean away, or _something_ \-- but is rewarded only with the 'clink' of metal against wood and the sudden realization that his hands are _fucking cuffed together around one of the posts of the fucking headboard_!

"Goddammit, Dean!"

"You're slacking, boy. How the hell did you sleep through me cuffing your hands?"

As soon as Sam gets loose, he's going to knock that cocky-ass grin right off Dean's face. He jerks his hands against the bedpost and only succeeds in hurting his wrists. He twists his body, trying to dislodge Dean, but Dean's not going anywhere. "Dean, you are so fucking dead! I swear to God, if you don't unlock these cuffs -- mmph --"

Dean's tongue is sliding against Sam's with practiced ease, drawing him slowly into a kiss. Sam feels his anger dissipate as he reacquaints himself with the taste and comfort of _Dean_ , but his irritation is still lingering when Dean moves away from his mouth and starts kissing his way along the side of Sam's jaw, down to his chest...

"Dean, you can't just handcuff me to the bed and then stick your tongue down my throat and expect --"

Sam's being kissed into silence again, and really, if this is where running his mouth gets him, it isn't a very good incentive for him to shut up.

Dean breaks off the kiss, pulling back only a little before growling, "If you wanna keep talking, I'll leave you here and go find my own fun. Up to you."

Sam tries to decide if Dean would really leave him cuffed to the bed -- of course he would! This is Dean!

Sam keeps his gaze locked with Dean's as he nods.

"Okay?" Dean asks. "You're gonna quit bitchin'." It's not really a question.

Sam just looks at his brother and nods again. For the time being, he'll keep his mouth shut.

Sam lifts his head off the bed and presses his lips to Dean's once more. This time, when Dean's ministrations lead him away from Sam's mouth, Sam just closes his eyes and focuses on the warmth of Dean's breath and the smooth wetness of his tongue.

"Good boy," Dean mumbles under his breath against Sam's skin.

The praise in Dean's voice is what makes Sam decide to stay quiet. He likes when he earns Dean's approval, always has. That would be reason enough to follow what he says, but _oh fuck_ the cold air of the room ghosting over the wet trails Dean is leaving on his skin is an exquisite blend of contrasts, paralleling the battle that Sam is having in his mind: keep up his chilly attitude towards his brother or give in to the heated temptation to let Dean have his way.

As Dean works his way downward, Sam can feel the rough slide of his t-shirt against his stomach, the material bunching up between them, and Sam wants nothing more than to be rid of it, to feel only Dean's bare skin against his own, but when he goes to lift his hands, to tug at Dean's shirt, the clank of the cuffs reminds him why he can't. He whimpers, twisting his body a little but refusing to give Dean the satisfaction of flat-out saying what he wants. Where Dean's mouth is warm against him -- and he can't tell if Dean is actually forming words against his skin or just murmuring randomly -- the lingering drops of rain splashing off his hair leave spots of cold.

Dean is mumbling under his breath, incoherent words he shouldn't be thinking, let alone voicing. _Fuck_ and _Hot_ and _Hard_ are just barely noticeable, spilling off his lips. He'll make Sammy ask for it though; he knows Dean won't give him what he wants without a fight. "C'mon, Sammy," Dean murmurs against his skin. "I know you want something. Maybe..." Dean stops talking; he's running his tongue along the line of skin just above where the towel ends. Sam can feel Dean staring at him, chained to the headboard, even though his eyes are closed.

Sam groans at the sudden loss of Dean's mouth on his skin, at the loss of Dean's body pressed against his. He shifts restlessly against the cool sheets before opening his eyes to see his brother sitting there, watching him. "Dean." It isn't quite a broken whisper, but it's close. Sam's not even sure what he means by it, but he can't find the words to give his thoughts life, much less voice them.

Dean cocks his head to the side at Sam's voice -- no, Sam did not just whimper. "Yeah," Dean breathes out and watches as Sam swallows hard. He runs his hand from Sam's waist, up... over his stomach and toward his chest. He rolls off Sam abruptly, standing just to the side of the bed, toeing off his shoes with a faint smile curling his lip.

Sam watches his brother's every move, his tongue darting out over his lower lip unconsciously. He trusts Dean implicitly, but there are times -- like now -- when he starts to wonder if that trust is misplaced. The look in Dean's eyes reminds Sam that he's at his brother's mercy, and Sam knows it's going to take more than just his patented puppy dog look to get his way tonight. The balance of control between the two of them has always been shaky, but it's wavering more now than ever. He starts to say Dean's name again, but even in his head it sounds too much like pleading, so he waits silently for Dean to make the next move.

Dean walks the length of the bed, pausing at the end, and Sam can see contemplation in his eyes as Dean's gaze shifts from Sam's face to his feet. With ease and self-control, Dean walks to the other side of the room, constantly staying in Sam's line of sight as he takes a seat in the rickety hotel chair and raises an eyebrow, eyes flashing -- daring Sam. Crossing his arms over his chest, he sits back, presumably getting comfortable.

"Uh..." Sam makes a noise that's a cross between astonishment and stunned disbelief. No fucking way. He can tell by the smug, challenging look on his brother's face that Dean thinks he's in charge. And Sam's not really in a position to argue -- he's been left hard and wanting and naked, and though the vengeful part of him wishes his hands were free so that he could wring his brother's neck, the other part -- the Dean-sounding voice that's really starting to irritate the piss out of him now -- insists that if his hands were free the first thing he'd do is jerk off to the perfect portrait of indolent sin sitting across the room. Instead, he can't touch himself, can't even roll over to find a hint of relief by pressing his erection against the mattress, and when he shifts his hips, the slight friction of the coarse motel-issue towel only pisses him off. "Dean." He chokes out the word, trying to keep his voice from wavering and betraying exactly how much he fucking _wants_ \-- wants to see the body that he knows is hiding underneath the faded t-shirt and worn denim, wants the pressure and the heat of that body pressed against him, wants to feel Dean's tongue sliding over his own as they move together... and damn it, if Dean doesn't get his ass back over here and touch him, for Christ's sake, Sam might just start working on forcing that whole moving-things-with-his-mind business!

Sam's aware that Dean knows. But he's just sitting there, completely out of reach though still in plain view. "Oh, fuck, _Dean_!" Sam growls, yanking once more at the cuffs. "Quit fucking around!"

"Who's fucking around?" Dean asks, cock-sure grin sliding perfectly into place as he reaches behind himself, to the base of his neck, to pull off the worn gray t-shirt. The shirt comes off easily even though Dean remains seated, and Dean's doing a poor job of concealing his amusement at Sam's frustration. Sam is squirming in the handcuffs, and his whole body seems to be thrumming with anticipation.

Dean waits it out a little longer; he's perched on the edge of his seat but still the flawless image of calm and collected -- especially compared to Sam. It's like Dean knows when Sam's frustration is ready to explode because he stands and walks slowly over to the bed. Sam thinks it's getting to Dean now; he can tell Dean's hard from where he's standing. He knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that if Dean hadn't cuffed him to the headboard, well -- it's a good thing he had.

Sam's bordering on fucking livid, and Dean smiles at him, one big, fat, shit-eating grin. _Fucking smiles_! He has a look on his face that almost says ' _Oh, tonight will be fun_ '. Then Dean reaches down, removes the towel covering Sam's lower half and smirks.

Sam can only think of one way to spell 'Dean Winchester' right now, and that's D-E-A-D. If this is his idea of foreplay, it's a wonder someone hasn't killed him before now.

Dean winks at his little brother. "You doing all right there, Sammy?"

Sam can't help but think once more that his brother is lucky that he's handcuffed. He bites his lip, trying to keep from spilling out the demands that are forming in his mind. He knows that being pushy will only cause Dean to tease him even more, and he'll be damned if he's gonna beg for it. Hell, he's not even considering asking for it. He knows he'll get what he wants… eventually. But watching Dean, standing beside the bed with that look that says he thinks he's winning, towel dangling loosely from one of his hands and obscuring Sam's view of the planes and muscles he knows so well... he starts to wonder if they can make a deal.

He's not sure how Dean knows, but he's certain he does. Sam's just there, at the point where one right move or one right phrase will set him to yelling again. It's like Dean wants that, wants to see him lose control. Dean swings the towel around several times before tossing it aside and sitting on the edge of the bed, his legs brushing up against Sam's. "Not gonna answer me?" he asks with a mocking pout as trails one finger up and down Sam's now naked thigh.

Sam's eyes narrow. Everything between them has always been a game, a competition, and this is no different. Dean's close enough now that Sam could land that kick he missed earlier, but the only thing that would satisfy would be his own petulant rage, and he'd be no closer to getting off than he is now. He moves his leg a little, arching the slightest bit into Dean's light touch, adding fuel to the flames.

And Dean stops. The fucker is perched on the bed _right fucking there_ with his hand on Sam's thigh, staring at Sam with undeniable lust in his eyes. Just waiting.

Sam groans, closing his eyes as he leans back against the pillow and shakes his head. A couple deep breaths and he's almost found the control to wait Dean out a bit longer... and Dean resumes the feather-light touches. That's it.

"Goddammit, Dean, either uncuff me or get on with it!"

Dean shakes his head at his brother, making a 'tsk' noise. "You're really not in a position to be demanding, are you?" he says as he stands and reaches into his pocket, drawing Sam's attention there. The looseness of his faded jeans does nothing to mask the obvious hard-on Dean's sporting. He pulls the tiny silver key from his pocket, places it between his teeth and reaches back down again. Sam's eyes watch every move of Dean's hands as he makes a show of undoing his belt and pulling it slowly through the loops.

Sam's sweating now.

Dean pops each button on his jeans slowly, unconsciously licking his lips. When he's finally done, he doesn't push his pants down, just reaches inside and obviously pulls on his still-hidden cock several times, closing his eyes at the first touch. Key still gripped tightly between his teeth, Dean inhales slowly and grins when Sam moans.

Dean plays for a minute then, leaving his left hand down his pants, reaches up and removes the key with his right. "Right or left, Sam?"

Sam looks at Dean, confused. "What?"

"Right?" Dean repeats slowly, looking from one hand to the other as he speaks. "Or left?"

_Yeah, I got_ that _part_! Sam thinks sarcastically, studying his brother. Oh. _Ohhhh!_

The desire in Dean's eyes is tempered with flecks of impish laughter, and Sam shakes his head before meeting his gaze determinedly.

"Left."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. _Left_."

Dean grins. "Good boy."

Dean throws the key on the table as he rips off his jeans, and growls as he practically jumps on the bed. He's straddling Sam's hips and leaning forward so that their faces are just centimeters apart. Dean's eyes are dark as he leans forward to run his tongue in a clean swipe up Sam's arm. Kneeling over him, Dean moves further up with his tongue and leaves a damp trail in his wake as he shuffles his body up as well. Dean's cock is nearly on level with Sam's mouth when he stops, and Sam can just sense his smirk.

His brother could thrust his hips forward, if he wanted to, make Sam suck him off before going anywhere else, but he doesn't. He nips at Sam's wrists, just next to the hard metal; Sam arches off the bed and tries to stifle a grunt.

"In a hurry?" Dean asks, not getting any closer with his hips. Sam opens his mouth, lifts his head up, and Dean -- the bastard -- curves his back to keep out of reach.

Sam thinks that if it was possible to die of frustration, then his time is about up. There's nothing between him and Dean but an interminable distance of air, Dean's cock is so close that Sam can practically taste it, and yet Dean is still teasing him. Sam can almost imagine running his tongue around the head of Dean's cock, wants so badly to take it in his mouth, if for no reason other than to stifle the moans of pleasure that have been trying to spill from his lips since Dean reinstated his proximity. He almost lost it when he felt Dean's teeth on his wrist, but he knows how needy and wanton the noises make him seem. Though if Dean gets off on them half as much as Sam does… The sounds he can pull from Dean - the moans and murmurs - those, Sam's sure, would drive him over the edge if Dean would just let him...

Dean bites down again; the warmth of his mouth and the cool of the cuffs against his skin are almost too much. Sam had nearly forgotten how much Dean loves handcuffs. Sam's heart is beating out of control, and he wonders if Dean can feel it under his tongue as he licks and sucks. Sam thinks that any moment he will lose all sense of himself, all sense of propriety, and he bites his tongue to keep from saying anything damning. Dean moves when Sam tightens his hands into fists, and he's momentarily relieved.

He shifts his weight, now sitting up on Sam's chest, and as he closes his eyes, he lets out a small groan. And when Dean drops a hand to his cock, Sam can feel it, can feel himself getting heated and frantic when Dean starts getting vocal, so he closes his eyes to try and block it out. It's a while before Dean reaches down and cups Sam's face tilting his head up, and when Sam opens his eyes, Dean is staring at him. Unconsciously, Dean licks his lips and leaves his mouth parted but doesn't stop with his pulling.

Sam wants to close his eyes, block out the _ohmyholyfuckinghot_ image of his brother, but he can't. He's mesmerized by the look in Dean's eyes, can't look away, but he doesn't need to see Dean stroking his own cock to know that's exactly what he's doing, and he doesn't need to watch it to know how hot that is.

But he does need _something_... He squirms restlessly. "Dean..." It comes out half moan, half whisper, and Sam barely recognizes his voice as his words trip over one another. "Oh, god, Dean, just... I need... I can't... just fucking _please_!"

It's enough to make Dean move, and Sam's feeling restless again. Sam moans out his name, and Dean slides down his body, stopping once to lay a possessive kiss on his lips, to take his breath away before he whispers in Sam's ear. "Good boy." He doesn't bother with the pleasantries, and Sam's okay with it because he doesn't think he could last if Dean did, and just before he crawls down the length of his trembling body to settle between Sam's legs, Dean reaches to the table for the bottle of lube. "Look at me, Sam," he says, clear and controlled as the cool of his hand wraps around the warmth of Sam's cock.

"Say it," demands Dean as he presses one lubed finger inside Sam.

"Dean..." Sam's not sure what Dean wants him to say, but he'd recite the Constitution backwards if that's what Dean wants to hear -- or something decidedly less complicated, because the forceful, commanding tone (which Sam secretly loves) coming hot on the heels of the whispered praise has driven all coherency from Sam's mind. Sam sputters out words -- he thinks they're things like "please" and "now" and "more" -- as he arches into Dean's touch. "Dean, please, god...” His breath is coming in heavy pants as he struggles to form words. It's not want that has driven Sam out of his mind, but a physical, aching need. A specific need that only Dean can fill because _ohgodDean_ he knows Sammy better than Sam knows himself. Only Dean can get Sam riled up and turned on with the same breath, can take him right to the edge and hold him there before pushing him over, and Sam's teetering on the brink now that Dean's finally touching him and it's nowhere near enough and Sam can't overcome the mantra of Dean's name rolling over and over in his mind. "Dean, fuck... I need you..."

Sam knows Dean loves to watch him come undone, the way that he struggles against his better judgment, the way he fights off what he wants to try and get the upper hand. "I know you do, Sammy, and that's why I'm here," he says, emphasizing his words by forcing another finger inside his brother. It's so fucking hot when Dean tips his head back and opens his mouth, a silent groan on his lips, and then exhales a shaky breath. Right now, Sam imagines that all Dean can think about is how fantastic this feels -- hopes he's lost in how good this is. Another finger, and Dean jerks on Sam's cock as he pushes inside, seemingly drinking up the sounds, the moans and grunts that Sam's trying to prevent. Dean shifts restlessly between his legs.

Sam's biting his lower lip so hard he can taste blood, and still there are moans and half-formed words slipping out with each exhale. He's not sure if he wants more to push back against Dean's fingers or press up into the hand that's wrapped around his cock. He clenches his eyes shut and lets his head fall back against the mattress, and he's doesn't know how much more of this he can take. "More... oh... I want... c'mon..." He raises his head back up, opening his eyes to find Dean looking at him once more. He swallows hard, trying to force a bit of steadiness back into his voice, and he's almost surprised that it works. "Dean... fuck me."

"Oh, don't worry, Sammy. I will."

Sam's sure that it's the red that draws his brother's attention, glistening in the half-light of the moon spilling through the sheer drapes of the seedy motel, the way it shines and pools where he's biting his lip, that makes Dean want. He releases Sam's cock to balance himself as he leans forward to kiss him, muffling his broken words for just a moment, but 'fuck me' plays over and over in his mind. Dean pushes his hand a little bit harder and Sam gasps _god_ , and Dean is whispering _yes_ as he stays _right there_ , so close to Sam's open mouth and heavy breathing.

After making one final pass with his tongue over Sam's lips, he pulls his fingers out and pushes Sam's legs up. He's lost to anything except 'fuck me' again and again, a broken record in his head, and hopes Dean intends to.

Dean pushes in slow at first, and when he speeds up Sam can feel him start to lose control. It's far too hot in the room, even with the air on full blast, and Sam's failing miserably at keeping his cool. Sam can feel Dean watching him after he's settled himself inside him completely. Dean scrapes his rough nails lightly on Sam's chest, whispering "Mine." Sam pushes back and thinks this is farther... this is harder than he's ever been before.

The splashes of pleasure and pain swirl together until they become indistinguishable, clouding Sam's mind even further, and all Sam can think about is the possessiveness in Dean's whispered claim.

"Yours." The agreement comes out hushed and reverent. Dean _owns_ Sam, and the proof is in the way Sam's world is currently narrowed down to _Dean_ \-- above him, against him, inside him. As they move together, Sam lets out a few frantic whimpers as he struggles with the handcuffs again -- he's never walked away from one of their encounters without wearing Dean's mark in one way or another, and he knows from the way the metal is digging into his wrists that this time will be no different -- knowing it's futile but it isn't fucking fair that he can't touch, and the incoherent babble that's falling from his lips is a mixture of "Dean" and "yes" and "fuck" and "yours" (because belonging to Dean is one of the things that makes this feel so fucking _right_ ). He wants... oh god, he _needs_ a distraction to still the mumblings that are dissolving into frantic sounds, and he struggles to find the words that will bring Dean close enough for him to kiss or lick or bite...

At Sam's barely whispered 'yours', that submitting, Dean groans loudly and freely for the first time all night. Dean lets Sam's leg slide off his shoulder and reaches around, pulling his head up in a desperate kiss that's more teeth and possession than anything else. The way Dean is gasping for breath - like Sam's stealing his air - doesn't stop him; he doesn't back away. Sam is panting and grunting -- positive that he's spilling _yesyesyes_ as he's fucked relentlessly, Dean pushing and pulling with an unstoppable fervor, not holding anything back. Dean moves his hand, releasing Sam's neck, but Sam holds it up to watch as Dean jerks wildly at his cock. Sam thinks he's determined they should come together; his brother is doing everything he knows to push Sam over the edge, the perfect touch, the perfect rhythm, and Dean's breathing matches his own now.

"Mine," he purrs as he speeds up both his hips and his hand. Sam's plea to fuck him and his mumbled incoherencies continue. Yes, Dean shudders, his body outwardly on auto-pilot, beginning to spill hot and fast into Sam. Dean's there and there's no turning back. "Now, Sammy," he growls as he bites down on Sam's lip. Sam screams and just let's go, there's a wetness now that can only mean they've gone together. But Dean doesn't stop there. He keeps up the rhythm, the pumping, and only slows when Sam starts to whimper.

Dean pulls out without heed and slides up next to Sam, who winces. Resting his head on an arm still chained to the headboard, Dean breaths deeply, and they're falling back to earth, this bed, each other. Absently wiping his hand off on the sheet, Dean gives his brother's arm a quick bite and stands to walk over to the desk. Locating the key is easy; it's only a moment before Dean turns back to him.

Sam sees the key in Dean's hand and the indecision on his face. "Dean, I'm not going anywhere," he says softly. He'd say something else, but he's bordering on too-sentimental as it is. He wants to say more, but he hopes he doesn't have to say just how much he belongs to Dean because Dean should already know, and besides, he's too tired and satiated to fill the space between them with pretty words and assurances that Dean would just laugh at. "But it'd be nice to be able to get comfortable."

Slowly Dean makes his way back to Sam and unlocks the cuffs, running his finger lightly on the ringed bruise that's already showing on Sam's wrists. Sam expects Dean to take a few minutes to admire his new handiwork (he sometimes thinks Dean enjoys the marks as much as Sam does) or to come back to lie beside him, but he walks away instead.

Sam feels the bed give a little when something is thrown down beside him. He glances over, seeing a decent sized package wrapped in packing paper, label addressed to one of their fake names and a PO Box in the town they were in.

"Happy birthday, Sammy.'


End file.
